In August’s Stride

The confused gait of a cold, grey, rain-battered Indian August

Ian Taylor: Unsplash

August that saunters
Melancholic spring buds foil with frost
Bone-pale, wilting to tendered resolves
Receding roses undulate by slitted throats
One by one, the petals fall
Blushing, bruised, clinging to wet asphalt
as lovers lean on gleaming sidewalks
The wheeling spokes of time peddle to a halt.

August that races
with a butterfly-flux ebbing in nature’s belly
Lilac skies dribble libations to the divine
Holy beads of dew overrun rivers aplenty
Flaming erogenous zones of a grey gushing by
Until the scrupulous sun turns off the rain’s whim
Or the lust-gaped flood tilts the earth in a trice.

We slack, sepulchered in the arms of exile.